Chapter Twenty-Seven
Few words were spoken between Charlotte and Dorothea during the long two-day drive to Clayton House.
On Dorothea’s part, it was because she was so worried about their father, and she did not wish to alarm her younger sister any more than necessary with speculation.
Charlotte, on the other hand, was simply grateful for the lack of conversation so that the topic of Mr. Morton did not come up.
She had not confessed to her sister Mr. Morton’s remarkable offer to elope to Gretna Green, nor would she, if she could help it.
The unpleasant proposal was still so upsetting to her.
However, any anxiety over it which might display upon her countenance would be seen by Dorothea as worry over their father, which was convenient for Charlotte.
She also found herself still dismayed over how Mr. Morton had departed Haverstone after she had fled into the house.
He had not even taken proper leave of her.
Charlotte felt confident that Mr. Morton—no, Robert, (she could call him that now, could not she?
After all, they were very nearly engaged)—would likely soon set things right, though.
Perhaps he would come to Clayton House. At the very least, she was confident he would write a letter to her, apologizing for his rash proposal and assuring her that, of course, he would wait however long it took to read the banns and have a church wedding.
After all—what could possibly be the rush?
If he loved her, he would certainly take her wishes for a proper wedding into consideration.
The more Charlotte considered, the more she felt that his initial proposal to elope was, in fact, simply a clumsy way of trying to help. He must have sincerely believed that for them to hastily marry would be seen as good news and would truly bring her father to recovery.
Why, in all likelihood, Robert does not even truly want to elope, himself.
He just thought it a clever idea at the time.
It was, in truth, a very thoughtful and loving gesture.
I should not have been so harsh in my reaction.
His intentions were good. I shall write a letter to him, saying so, to assure him of my affections.
Yes. I shall do that as soon as I have a spare moment at home.
Thus, happily convinced of the good sense of her plan, Charlotte was able to relax a bit. She reached for her sister’s hand and when Dorothea turned to her, smiled bravely.
“All will turn out fine, do you not think?” Charlotte asked.
“In fact, it may well be that Mr. Baker has already completely turned the crisis around, and Papa will be doing much better by the time we arrive. Then, after a good visit with our family, we shall return to Haverstone before long. Do you not believe it is possible?”
“I like to think in God’s world all things are possible, dearest,” Dorothea said in a soft voice.
“But, we do not even know from what illness our father is suffering. A putrid infection of the lungs? Has he suffered a stroke or seizure of some kind and is incapacitated? Miles was so very light on any details in the express. I am trying not to let my imagination run away with me, though.” She took a deep breath.
“Having you here with me on the journey home is the greatest of comforts. To know that you are not even the least upset over leaving your Mr. Morton and missing out on the ball is so helpful to me just now.”
“Oh, of course, I can have no objection to canceling it. We can hold it later. Perhaps in September.” Charlotte smiled and squeezed Dorothea’s arm. “I must say I like the sound of that—my Mr. Morton.”
Dorothea laid her head on her sister’s shoulder. “Indeed, he is yours. I am quite convinced of it. As for Papa, well, we should be at Clayton House in just a few hours, and then we shall know how long our stay there may be.”
*
It was late afternoon when they arrived home.
As the carriage entered the sweep of Clayton House, Charlotte and Dorothea saw Miles coming outside to greet them.
Charlotte tried to read his face; he looked tired, but she could not see any tremendous sorrow upon it.
That must be a good sign, she thought. And, Lavinia’s absence from out front must signal she was up in the sick room, caring for their father.
Stiff and sore from the long journey, the two exited the carriage and embraced their brother.
“Tell us, Miles, is he—” Dorothea could not finish the thought.
“He lives, dear sisters, he lives. But, our father is gravely ill. Mr. Baker just left a few hours ago and will return tonight.” He gestured to servants to collect the luggage, then guided his sisters indoors.
“Come, let me take you to him at once. But, I must warn you he may not know you. He has been in and out of awareness these past four days.”
“Did you send for Gilbert?” Charlotte asked.
“No. He is busy with his studies. And it is so contagious. Enough that we are risking our health here without putting him in danger, as well.”
“Miles, what precisely is troubling Papa?” Dorothea asked as the three climbed the stairs.
“Scarlatina,” he said grimly.
Both Charlotte and Dorothea gasped at the words. Such a dangerous illness and, far too often, fatal. Dorothea could not control her weeping.
“Does our physician have hope?” asked Charlotte. “What is his course of treatment?”
“He is doing everything he can, of course, but as you know, with this illness, much of the recovery depends on the strength of the patient.” They reached their father’s room.
On a small table in the hall next to the door sat a basket with scarves in it.
Miles took one and tied it around his face.
“We must wear these at all times while in the room with Papa,” he said, choosing two and handing them to his sisters.
“Use this to cover your mouth and nose. It is all some newfangled idea of Mr. Baker’s in order to prevent infection.
While I am not in full understanding of it, I suppose it cannot do any harm.
” When he saw they were ready, he opened the door, and they stepped in.
Charlotte and Dorothea could not help crying out in alarm at the sight of their father, lying helpless in the large, mahogany, four-poster bed. His face and neck were covered with the bumpy, red rash common to the illness, and his wheezing was audible from the doorway.
Charlotte scanned the room; it was empty of other occupants, save a girl, slumped and dozing in a chair by the fireplace. “Where is Lavinia? Why is she not nursing our father?”
She saw an expression of disbelief on Miles’s face.
“Are you mad? I sent her to her parents’ home as soon as Father fell ill. Have you forgotten she is carrying our child?”
“Oh. Of course. We cannot risk Lavinia coming down with this. But, who is caring for Papa then, Miles?” asked Dorothea as she moved to the side of the bed and bent over to study their father.
His breathing was labored and there was a sheen of moisture on his face.
She turned away and went to the window, weeping afresh.
“Mrs. Wilson has hired two girls from Doddington to assist her. And, as I said, Mr. Baker comes twice a day, at least, to check on him.”
Charlotte went to her father’s bedside. “He looks so very unwell,” she said to no one in particular.
She placed a hand on her father’s forehead.
“He still has a fever, too.” She saw a basin of dirty water with a cloth in it, sitting on a table next to the bed.
“This will not do.” She picked up the basin and walked over to shake the servant girl awake, saying, “Take this downstairs and replace it with fresh, cool water and a clean cloth. And send Mrs. Wilson up with some beef broth, too. Perhaps we can get him to take some nourishment.” The girl took the basin, bobbed a curtsy, and departed.
Charlotte removed her Spencer jacket and pulled a chair next to the bed.
“Why do you not go lie down, Dorothea? I shall stay with Papa for now. We must get some broth in him, and I shall bathe him with cool water to help reduce the fever.”
“I should help you…” Dorothea said faintly.
“No, you should rest. We must take turns sitting with him until…until we see improvement. Go now.”
Dorothea and Miles left the room, and Charlotte settled in for a long night.
*
As she gently wiped her father’s face, chest, and arms with the cool cloth, Charlotte kept up a cheerful stream of chatter as much to distract herself as him.
Mr. Baker had come and gone and could offer little hope, but Charlotte was determined her father would survive.
She had dismissed the girl, telling her to go rest in the kitchen, unless called for.
“Papa, you were right to send me to Haverstone,” she said in a soft voice as she worked.
“It is all as you and Dorothea hoped—I have met a gentleman, who appears to care greatly for me. His name is Mr. Robert Morton, and he owns a fine and prosperous estate, Brentwood, just a few miles from Dorothea and Reginald’s home.
He is kind, very handsome and, much to my own astonishment, he appears to love me.
Can you believe it? He has all but proposed.
In fact, I should not tell you this, but—he even tried to persuade me to elope with him this week so that he might bring me to you as a married woman.
I turned him down, of course, but I know his intentions were honorable.
I think you will quite like him, Papa. So, you must get well, that you may meet him and give him your blessing. ”
Charlotte watched as her father moaned and his eyelids fluttered a bit. He opened them slowly and stared at her, but Charlotte wondered, did he recognize his own daughter? She leaned closer and pulled the cloth around her nose and mouth down. She smiled, then replaced the scarf.
“Char…Char…” he murmured before gasping and giving up the attempt to speak.
“Yes, it is I, dear Papa, your dear Charlotte. I’ve come to nurse you back to health.
And you must get well. For how can I be wed without you there?
” She took the cup of broth off the warmer and, holding his head up, held it to his lips, gratified to see him take a couple of sips, although he grimaced from the pain of swallowing.
“Very good. There, you see? You will be your old self in no time.” She helped him lean back against the pillows.
He sighed from exertion, then closed his eyes.
The door opened and Dorothea tiptoed in. “My turn to sit with Papa,” she whispered. “You go and rest.”
“He just had a sip of broth, Dorothea. And, he recognized me. I think—no—I know he will recover.” Charlotte rose and hugged her sister. “I shall sleep a while, then return to help you.”
Dorothea nodded and took the seat where Charlotte had sat for the past six hours.
*
Although quite exhausted from the long journey and sitting at her father’s bedside, when she reached her room, Charlotte did not feel as though she could sleep. Instead, she went to her desk, pulled out a sheet of paper and her pen, checked that her inkwell was filled, then composed her letter:
My dear Mr. Morton—Robert,
I feel I may address you in such a familiar manner at this point, since you have all but made your offer of marriage to me, and I have all but accepted. Therefore, I hope you will find that salutation welcome. You did call me by my given name in the garden three days ago, after all.
Dorothea and I have arrived at Clayton House and our father is quite ill with scarlatina, but we are hopeful he will recover.
We may be here several weeks, at least, I believe, unless he takes a bad turn and leaves us.
I refuse to even contemplate such thoughts, however, and wish I could strike out those words.
Dear Robert, may I write that I do regret the harsh words I uttered at your suggestion to elope with you?
Forgive me my refusal, but I simply wish to have a proper wedding in the chapel at Haverstone—or even at Brentwood Parish—rather than travel to Gretna Green.
An elopement there will always be thought suspect by many people.
Furthermore, the idea of standing up with you before our friends and family and making our wedding vows thrills my sensibilities, and I cannot wait to let everyone know of your intentions.
So far, I have kept our engagement a precious secret in my heart.
Again, forgive me for being so ungracious over your suggestion that we elope.
Please know that I realize your intentions were good and honorable and that you only wished to help me and my father, but I am willing to be most patient to wait for the right time to become your wife.
Please write to me at once, assuring me of your loving and steadfast affection, as I promise you mine now.
Your dearest Charlotte